Cold war: Continuation - 2

Hell. Hell was the only way to describe the hours of chaos that started after the officer’s yell. Anything else would downplay the rush of blood and sweat that filled the air, the loud bangs and snaps of bullets, and the whales of both friend and foe.

Connor’s mind spun and spun, unable to comprehend the battle that raged around him. He was pulled and pushed, to safety maybe? To his death? He couldn’t tell.

Bodies swarmed like ants in the trenches around him, and before he could focus his vision, a pistol was thrust into his hands as he too had become an ant, running around, trying not to get crushed under the weight of the enemy.

The screams finally diminished, and the shooting soon after. But the fighting continued, instead of with bullets, with blades and shovels. Something connected with Connor’s face, causing him to crash onto the floor, blood spraying out of his mouth. He barely had time to react, as he felt someone jump onto him, the object smacking his mouth again. He desperately raised his hand to grab onto it, or anything really.

His hand rose up and jabbed into something soft and squishy.

“GAH! -ZIA!”

Connor didn’t know what the word meant, but he didn’t care. He balled up his other hand, his left, and swung. It connected to the attacker's jaw; he was only able to tell because of the spiky pieces of hair that he felt brush his knuckle. He heard an “OOF” and immediately went in for a second swing, while still gripping on to the wet thing that was starting to drip something down his thumb and hands. The second punch hit the same place, and Connor finally had enough leverage to flip himself over, grabbing onto the enemy's coat and smacking his face with his fist again.

The next few moments were a blur, as Connor ruthlessly beat down on the man’s face, again and again. Eventually, the man stopped making noises of pain, instead gurgles and then, nothing. His senses finally cleared up; his mind captured a moment that would never leave it.

Connor’s right hand, gripping the man's face, his thumb jammed into eye socket, causing it to leak blood out in a stream. His face was mangled, teeth loose and gapped, his face and mouth covered in a mix of his and Connors blood. His breaths were few and far between, and it was accompanied with a low gurgling of…something.

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His whole body shook with fear and shame, he was the one who had made this man the way he was. He looked at his hands, bruised and covered with blood, they ached so much, he wanted to rip them off.

He felt himself be lifted off the ground by someone, he didn’t care who, the regret of his kill had left him distant.

“Get up! The battle is won! We-...”

Connor turned his head to look at the face of his officer, his eyes wide with shock and almost disgust.

“You…you did this? I…Christ.”

Connor looked down in shame. There was no denying it, he had killed that man.

He opened his mouth to try to justify it, but his superior spoke first.

“It doesn’t matter now…he was an enemy. You were just doing your job. Now come, we’ve pushed them back but some retreated. We must do a final…”

The words passed through Connor’s ears with no consideration, as the officer walked towards where he assumed the rest of the men were, and Connor followed, only one thought entered his mind.

There was more? After the bombing, the explosions, the beating… The officer wanted Connor to charge into the enemy trench and do it again?

He stopped walking. The silence was deafening, the only sounds heard were the silent whispering of soldiers, and the occasional cough and gunshot.

“Sir…I’m sorry, but I can’t follow you into the battle.”

The officer stopped too.

He turned around and smiled at Connor.

“I know. I know you can’t, and even if you could, you wouldn’t.”

The officer walked up to Connor, putting his hand on his shoulder.

“Go to the medical tent, you look like hell.”

Connor’s eyes widened; he was letting him go free.

The man turned around, walking out of sight in the zig zag trench.

“Wish us luck alright? We’re going to need it!”

Connor heard his chuckle down the trench, and it gave him hope, if just a little, that they could win this war. That he could go home to his mom, alive. He ran his thumb over his bloody knuckles. Not proud, but at least… alive. But still, in the back of his mind, he couldn't shake off the feeling that something would go wrong. And soon...

The End